


In the Hatred of a Minute

by E_Scribble



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Like everyone is an assassin, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Top Derek Hale, also a ton of smut, awkward sexual attraction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4312860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Scribble/pseuds/E_Scribble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where children are raised killers, taught at a young age to murder the guilty, Stiles remains pure. Sent to Brodwell boarding school, a place that houses scores of future killers, he refuses to murder, and instead of being shunned, is kept quietly by the staff out of guilt of a mistake made years ago. However, after nine years of growing up around death, Stiles is sent on a mission with Brodwell’s star student, Derek Hale. The person Stiles despises most. What he expected on the journey was death, destruction, and blood. What he didn’t expect was to fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Devynn - the one who introduced me to the madness that is Sterek and has stayed with me ever since](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Devynn+-+the+one+who+introduced+me+to+the+madness+that+is+Sterek+and+has+stayed+with+me+ever+since).



> All I have to say to you is bless your souls for venturing into this with me, and I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I do.
> 
> ALSO: The title is a quote from Edgar Allan Poe: "Years of love have been forgot, in the hatred of a minute"
> 
> ^^^ keep el quoto in mindo
> 
> Enjoy!

The knife gleamed lowly in the gloom-lit room. The polished metal was hard and cold against Stiles’ hands, and he could feel the sharp bite of the blade pushing on the pads of his fingers. He doubled that pain, tripled it. Even that thought was unbearable. He imagined how the blade, so dull and careless, would look plunging into the body of the dog in front of him.

He felt sick.

Around him, the masters of Brodwell stood, tall and intimidating and deadly in their dark cloaks, their blinking eyes. The dog in front of him panted softly, unaware of the circumstances, completely trusting the monsters surrounding him.

The knife fell to the floor with a loud, echoing clatter. Candlelight glinted off the edge and into Stiles’ eyes, and all he could do was squint against it, unwilling to move, unwilling to bend.

“Stiles,” a voice said, deep and disapproving. “Pick the blade back up.”

The sound of nervous, fluttering fabric rippled around him, the masters so unused to being defied. So used to watching innocent life wisp around this room like it was nothing. There was lead in his stomach and tears in his eyes.

“No,” he whispered, shocked and hoarse and scared, so scared. The bright, sharp pain of loss bloomed suddenly in his chest, hard and cold and pressing up against his ribcage. He refused to make others feel like this.

There were murmurs around him, of rage and scorn, but there was a soft noise that stood out among them. When Stiles turned to look in its direction, he met kind, caring brown eyes. Such a strange feature for a cold-hearted killer. Her eyes were deep set and around her mouth were smile lines.

She leaned down next to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and stared into his eyes for a beat or two. Then she leaned close and whispered, “Where do you expect to go, Stiles? If not here, where your mother and father wanted you, where?”

A rush of fury, so sudden and hot it engulfed him, rushed through Stiles. “Don’t talk about my parents,” he hissed furiously back, ignoring the hot tears streaming down his face. “I would rather be in the ditch than here, with the people that killed my father.”

She looked at him once more, before nodding. She stood and swiftly turned to the waiting masters and they all congregated together for a moment. That moment stretched into minutes, into hours. At some point, the dog Stiles’ had been instructed to kill leaped down from the table, it’s golden fur and soft brown eyes so kind and loving that Stiles reached out for it, and it shuffled towards him, lazy and happy, head resting on the sharp point of Stiles’ shoulder. His small fingers had clutched into the fur of the dog, holding onto the only thing surrounding him that he was sure wasn’t evil. He fell asleep like that, with the dog dutifully beside him, panting softly in his ear.

He awoke some time later, in a brightly lit bedroom painted a light shade of blue. There was a bedside table beside him, on it, a plastic glowing lamp burned. On the other side of that was another bed, on which a small boy laid.

His hair was midnight black and his skin was a brushed caramel color. His feet looked huge and he was on his back, holding a DS in front of his face. Blinking in confusion, Stiles looked up to find the woman from the ceremony standing at the end of his bed, folding some of his clothes he recognized into a chest at the foot of his bed.

She was wearing regular clothes, now, faded blue jeans and a soft lavender sweater. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun and when Stiles moved, she glanced up.

“Good evening, Stiles,” she said, all warm words and kind smiles.

Suspicion crawled through him. “Where’s the dog?” He asked, and for a moment, she just stared at him. Then, she gestured to her feet, and he crawled to the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning under his knees.

There he was, golden and panting and alive, lying right next to the woman’s feet. Relief rushed through him in a storm, and he let out a gust of air.

“His name’s Sam,” she said softly, and the dog looked up.

“Here, Sam,” Stiles called, and was delighted when he hopped up onto the bed with him, curling up comfortably. Then he turned to the woman. The boy on the bed was still pressing furiously at his DS.

“Why am I here?”

She tucked away the last of his clothes and pursed her lips. “You’ve been accepted into Brodwell’s academy.”

“But I didn’t kill Sam,” Stiles pointed out, confusion and fear running through his head.

“Yes, that’s true. You’re the first student, person, actually, to gain admittance here without taking a life. And the last, I can assure you.”

Stiles felt the opposite of assured.

“Then why am I here? If I won’t kill for you, why do you want me?”

The woman sighed again, sitting down against the end of the bed. “Pity. Your father wanted you here, as did your mother. We haven’t decided what we’ll do with you, yet, and maybe we never will. But your new home is here, Stiles, and it’s been promised you won’t have to do any killing whatsoever.”

Stiles didn’t answer, just stared down at the carpet until he felt the bed lift as the woman stood. “I’m Melissa, by the way. I’ll be helping you get adjusted here for the first few weeks.” She smiled and ruffled his hair. “Welcome to Brodwell Academy, kid.”

*

_Nine Years Later_

The bustle of the hallway was loud in Stiles’ ear, and he frowned, pushing past the bodies so he could make his way to his locker. Most everyone was hurrying to lunch, excited to be free of responsibility for the next half hour. Stiles, however, was on his way to the library, after a brief stop at his locker for the sandwich Melissa had dropped in there, so he continue to research.

Ever since his arrival, he had been different. Of course he had, being the only one there without blood on his hands. That had given the masters a very big puzzle to solve indeed. In the end, they had just waited for Stiles to find his own talent.

It had turned out to be charisma.

It came as a surprise to them all when they found Stiles chatting people up in the hallways, getting gossip, hearing secrets. But the masters had quickly smiled amongst themselves, knowing they could use this. After all, charisma wasn’t a common skillset bred among killers. They had ended up giving him a regular education – free of the classes that specified where on the human body to target with a  sharp object, how many times to cudgel someone with a blunt object, how to read your prey, how to silence your sounds or melt into the shadows. Instead, he had read Shakespeare and the Odyssey, taken down notes for equations and binomials. Excelled at all things scholarly. However, he also had been given charisma classes. A place where they would present him with a situation, a specific personality, and force him to retrieve useful information.

It wasn’t bad, as classes went, actually quite interesting. The only downfall was that Stiles knew that someday the skills he was building inside these pretend walls would become real, and he would be helping along the path to another human’s demise.

Bumped along by another solid body, Stiles grumbled and pressed closer to the cold metal of the lockers. Most of these students made him feel very _anti_ -charismatic, but Melissa said that was just him being a baby.

Finally reaching his locker, he twisted in his code and reached in for the soggy PB&J. There was suddenly a sweaty heat next to him, and Stiles scrunched up his nose.

Turning to push Scott away, he plugged his nose with his fingers. “You smell like ass,” he commented, and Scott just rolled his eyes. He had just come from training, and he always sweat like a pig. The thought that Scott had just been handling weapons meant for human death flashed in and out of Stiles mind like a fly.

He was used to those by now.

“At least I don’t smell like ass on a regular occasion, like _someone_ I know,” he retorted, crossing his arms and looking pleased with himself.

Now it was Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes.

“You got me good, Scotty. Now go have fun making goo-goo eyes at Allison, why don’t you?” Stiles asked with a shit-eating grin, kicking his locker shut.

Scott made a hurt face. “Aw, not again. Stiles, you _know_ you already know the algebraic formula to solve those math problems. I don’t see how they’re any _use_ , but I know you _know_ them. I heard you mumble them in your sleep!”

Stiles scuffed his foot on the floor. “Yeah, but I want to get a good score on this test. You wouldn’t understand, because instead of building brain muscle, you’re building brawn.” Stiles replied sarcastically.

Scott just grinned. “You deserve a break, Stiles. Plus, I’ve been sitting all by myself for literally four days now, and _I_ deserve to not look like a complete moron for Allison again.”

Feeling his resolve crumble, Stiles glared at Scott before stomping ahead, ignoring the victorious hoot he heard coming after him.

*

Brodwell Academy bred some of the finest specimen on Earth. The daily, excessive training and need for allure assured that by the age of fifteen, every student was a walking and talking Venus fly trap. Another reason Stiles didn’t like to visit the lunchroom, despite the rather obvious one (he didn’t prefer to be the only non-killer in a large crowd), was that he looked nothing like the other students.

They were tall and lean, their diet and exercise keeping their cheekbones sharp, their skin glowing and healthy. They had classes in which they learned how to walk attractively, do their hair, arrange their features. They were all immaculate, and Stiles…

Well, Stiles simply _wasn’t_.

He was pale and gawky, long limbed and freckled all over with moles and beauty spots. His lips formed an exact, if not thinner, replica of a Cupid’s bow, and his brown hair was either shorn short or out of control messy, as it was today. His skin was spotted in some places and his eyes held bags from many sleepless nights studying and sneaking out onto the roof.

As they walked into the lunchroom, screaming with noise, Stiles pushed his glasses a little further up his nose. He saw Allison, her curling black hair draped perfectly over one shoulder, followed by a gorgeous Lydia Martin, strawberry satin falling in a perfect sheet down her back.

Jackson was already seated at their table, and beside him Danny sat, eating and smiling pleasantly at him. Stiles eyes continued to rove around the room until they landed on a dark figure, striding towards a lone table near the back. It was Boyd, one of the best students in the school. Second only to Derek Hale, who happened to be his best friend.

Stiles’ eyes followed Boyd until he sat down at a table occupied by only one other person.

Derek Hale.

He was probably the most attractive person in this school, which was saying a lot.

Like, a lot, a lot.

His jawline was strong and proud, sharp enough to cut glass. He was a senior, and it showed by the light stubble he allowed to grow around his plush mouth, naturally downturned and almost always in a scowl. His cheekbones were sharp and his cheeks were hallow. His eyebrows were thick and expressive, his hair gelled to perfection. His eyes were a beautiful mix of brown and green, and his body was a work of art.

Stiles hated it. He hated all of it. He hated Derek most of all, though, because he exhumed pride and arrogance and an attitude that he was _better_. He was the biggest form of false advertisement Stiles had ever seen.

Not only for this school, because when people looked at him they wanted to _be_ him, wanted exactly what he had, which was a horrible and ugly mess, but also for his victims.

They saw him and they were allured. Drawn in by his beautiful face, his devastating body. They thought of sex and kisses and happiness. They didn’t think of death, which is exactly what they got. Stiles turned away from him, scowling, and went to his and Scott’s lunch table, refusing to look up the rest of the time.

He missed the way Derek looked up, eyes trained hard on Stiles, for the rest of the time.

*

 The next couple of weeks passed by without anything dangerously exciting happening. Stiles tripped for about the millionth time walking into the lunchroom, Allison smiled politely at Scott when she caught him staring. Melissa got a cold and was relieved from her duties for a week. Stiles ended up excelling at all his exams, which he was extremely proud of. Because of this, he was free do to whatever he wanted for the last two weeks of the semester, before winter break. It was a terrifying, thrilling thought.

Staring up at the thick coats of snow covering a single tree branch, Stiles was seriously rethinking the _thrilling_ part. It had only been three days of freedom from classes, and he had nowhere to be, nothing to do. Scott was away at his classes, and Stiles was _so_ not sitting in on those.

So, he began to wander. Brodwell was a wide, spacious castle of a school. A duke from the 1800s had built this place, specifically for killers and assassins. His reasoning’s were that the world had to be purified in some form, and the people of earth didn’t have time to wait for an almighty God to smite thee down. So why not leave up to humans?

It was a complex system, the death requests and all. Stiles had to learn about them before they realized his gift for socializing. Someone, anyone in the world, could have a grudge. A large number of those people also were mentally unstable. An even larger number didn’t fully understand what _death, dead,_ and _gone_ meant.

So, there was a sort of… jury. Letters and requests got sent into Brodwell, demanding the death of an enemy, pleading to eradicate an ex-lover. These letters were evaluated by the masters of the school, and extensive research was done on both the victim and the requester. If either did not pass the vote by jury (say, the requester is out of their mind or the victim was guilty of nothing slightly relevant) then the charge would be terminated, a letter would be sent out to the requester, and they would move on.

Sighing, Stiles wasn’t aware of where his feet were taking him until he stopped outside of the training room, which stank of musk, sweat, and rubber mats. The squeak of shoes sliding against the hard floor of the dueling zone peaked his interest, and Stiles sidled over a little more so he could see who was fighting.

Derek Hale was one of the two, his white t-shirt sticking to his back and biceps, slick with sweat. His hair was a mop around his face, free of the gel Stiles was so used to seeing him in. His feet were placed wide apart, his hands out in front of him, ready for his opponent to attack.

Which would be Jackson Whittemore, who was also drenched in sweat, his brow pulled low over his bright eyes. He was crouched even lower than Derek, and as Stiles watched, he darted forward, trying to unbalance Hale from under.

Derek, however, saw that coming. He dodged swiftly, and Jackson would have careened into the supply of punching gloves had he not righted himself swiftly. There was real anger in his eyes now, and Stiles saw Derek’s mouth twitch up into a grin. Of course he would enjoy making people mad. Stiles scowled but didn’t turn away.

Jackson lunged again but this time, there was something silver gleaming in his palm. Stiles realized what it was a second later.

“Knife!” He yelped slamming through the training room doors. “Whittemore’s got a _knife_!” he called again, but Derek had already seen. He sidestepped easily again and kicked out at Jackson’s legs. He hit the floor with an _umph_ and his limbs sprawled. He flipped over just as quickly though and was about to swipe at Derek when Hale caught his wrist and twisted it, hard. Jackson cursed and dropped the knife. Immediately, Derek let go of his wrist and bent over to grab it.

It was at that moment that Stiles heard the utter silence of the room. He turned to look around and saw that everyone was staring at him, their eyes squinted, eyebrows quirked. Turning back towards Derek, he saw that the man himself was staring at him, a dark light in his eyes that Stiles wasn’t too fond of.

“He had a knife,” Stiles explained weakly, gesturing to Jackson. No one seemed too concerned anymore, though, and they all quickly went back to throwing knives, shooting silenced guns and leaping through laser lights.

Hale was still watching him.

“What?” Stiles asked, irritated. Jackson had already gotten up and was rubbing his wrist, scowling as he walked away.

“Why did you come in here?” Derek asked, taking a step closer. At this distance, Stiles could see the lines of sweat trickling down his jaw, sticking his hair to his forehead.

Stiles rolled his eyes this time. “Because Whittemore had a _knife_ and I thought he was going to stab your or something. I was coming in here to help.”

The thought must have been amusing, because Derek’s lips twitched up into a small smirk. “Stilinksi, we’re _allowed_ to use knives. Encouraged, even. That’s how we duel. I just usually prefer to fight without, so if I’m ever caught in a situation where I don’t have a weapon, I know what to do.”

Stiles face heated. He could feel the scald of the blush travel down his next and splotch onto his chest. He wouldn’t give Hale the satisfaction of looking away, however. “Oh,” was all he said.

Derek smiled again, looking down at the knife in his hands. Suddenly, he was much closer than he had been before, an inch or so away from Stiles’ nose. Stumbling back, Stiles was horrified to find the wall so close, and his heart leapt in his chest when he realized he was trapped between the wall and Derek.

“And how exactly were you planning on saving me, Stiles?” Hale asked, eyes flickering dangerously. “Because, while Jackson may be unskilled, he is not as unskilled as _you_.” Derek’s eyes trailed down Stiles form and he could feel his hot breath against his face. There was suddenly a cold pressure traveling up Stiles right arm, and he twitched his eyes nervously down.

It was the knife.

Derek was slowly drawing the knife up his arm, an evil gleam in his eyes that made Stiles blood boil.

“Were you planning on ripping him off of me with your arms?” Derek asked, wrapping his other hand completely around Stiles’ bicep. The knife was still steadily running up his body, and Stiles was cursing himself for ever coming in here.

Derek had stopped talking now, so the only sound was Stiles loud, uneven breathing between the two of them.

“No,” he answered, and Derek grinned triumphantly.

Stiles futilely tried to shove Derek away from him, but all that accomplished was contact with his damp shirt and hard chest. “I was going to use my _brain_ and think of a solution to the problem. Not every single situation is solved by throwing people around, Hale.” Stiles spit, glaring.

Derek raised his eyebrows and leaned back. “That may be true,” he admitted, then leaned closer, whispering in Stiles ear. “But almost every one is.” He grinned, devilish and devastating, then tossed the knife up and snatched it back by the handle in his grip.

Stiles narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, watching angrily as Derek stalked away from him. He was just beginning to relax when Derek turned swiftly again and threw the knife at him. Stiles yelped but didn’t have the time to move before the blade was lodge perfectly beside his ear, ringing softly. “Next time, Stilinski, stick with your text books and homework. We don’t need unexperienced bodies in this room.” There was that grin again. “It’s dangerous.” Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Simmering. Stiles was simmering he was so mad, and he stormed out, past the knife stuck in the wall, through the amused or concerned stares of onlookers, and into the hallway, where the air was thick and cool, the stone of the walls sealing away all heat.

It was empty, seeing as classes were still on for everyone else in the school, so Stiles did the thing he usually did when he was by himself. He went outside.

He grabbed his thick, plaid hunters coat, insulated and warm, but not the most fashionable. He slipped his red hood over his head, then yanked the coat over himself. He switched his tennis shoes out for the clunky, brown and black snow shoes he owned, bending over to tie them into careful knots. Finally he grabbed fingerless gloves and shoved those onto his hands and slammed his locker closed.

Brodwell had a huge, sprawling expanse of land. It was at least fifty acres, and Stiles had never had enough time to explore all of it. A good ten acres of it was strictly for training during the summer, so their prized students could be prepared for every woodsy situation there was. But the rest of it was all for beauty.

In the summer, Melissa and a couple other people tended to the most beautiful garden Stiles had ever seen; it was bursting with bright poppies and sunflowers that grew above your head and delicate asters that swayed in the wind. The grass was a vibrant green and so silky you could lay in it forever.

However, Brodwell was just as beautiful in the winter. There was a thick smattering of evergreens that grew to the left of Brodwell, going on for about two acres or so. Currently they were covering with a soft blanket of snow, and the light of the sun was soft and cool against Stiles’ face. Icicles dripped from tree branches, hanging suspended in the perfect moment. A brittle wind blew through the trees and Stiles hunched down into his coat.

As he walked further into the pines, the wind died down and soon the only sound was the quiet crunch of pine needles as his boots stepped over them. He never understood why he enjoyed this copse of trees so much, but there was something inexplicably peaceful about feeling as if you were the only person in the world.

He continued on for another fifteen minutes or so, then sat down in a small clearing covered with huge rocks. He pulled his book from his bag and shucked that off his shoulders. He settled onto a small boulder that had a flat, smooth surface and propped his head up with his palm. He flipped his book open and began to read. His eyes grew heavy surprisingly fast and before he knew it, his head was slumping. He tried to keep his eyes open but they refused, and so he fell asleep to the soft lull of the wind through the trees.

*

Stiles awoke shivering. He was aware of the cold as he came into consciousness, but once he reached it fully, the temperature of his body hit him like a ton of bricks. The wind had turned icy while he slept, and the sun had slipped from the sky. All around him was dark. He moved over to reach for his book, but found that he couldn’t move his fingers. Heart thumping frantically, he felt his hands together. The press of his flesh was there, but otherwise, all feeling in his fingers had left him. His breath came out in misty white clouds and fear washed over him. He wouldn’t be able to get home, not like this, not in the dark.

Slowly, he rose, and as he did, he glasses fell from his face. The world suddenly became a lot more unclear. All he could hear was the loud sawing of his breath, and he stood up, terrified, searching for his glasses with his numb hands. He heard something connect, then fall into the snow, and he groaned, fear slowly lacing its way through his veins.

Then he saw the beam of a flashlight pierce the pine needles to his right, and he turned swiftly, unsure to be grateful or fearful.

When he saw who it was, he decided both was a healthy choice.

Derek emerged from the trees, clad in a slim grey coat and a checkered red and black scarf. When he saw Stiles, an expression of relief mixed with fury crossed his features. He stormed over to him, taking him roughly by the front of his coat.

“What in God’s name are you doing out here, Stiles?” Derek’s voice was rough, and Stiles stared at him for a moment before answering.

However, when he opened his mouth to speak, he found he was shivering too hard to spit out any words. Derek’s eyes widened, and he grabbed Stiles’ forearm and began tugging him back the way he came.

Stiles made a sound of alarm, then yanked his arm away and gestured to where his glasses had fallen.

There was a sleepy calm swimming through his veins, and Stiles decided it was best if he sat down for a little nap. He sank to the ground, oblivious to Derek’s growling. The sound of his voice was getting fainter, and suddenly all he could do was stare up at the sky, brilliant with millions of stars scattered throughout its inky surface. He smiled softly and closed his eyes.

There was a loud crunch next to his face, and he heard Derek swear.

“Get up, Stilinski. We have to get you back to Brodwell.” Derek grunted, hefting him up and shoving the glasses on his face. Stiles was aware enough to register the alarm spread across Derek’s features when he saw his face. He swore again and lifted him into his arms swiftly, like he weighed nothing, and began to sprint back through the trees.

The bounce of his head was uncomfortable and Stiles tried resting his head on Derek’s shoulder. That didn’t help much either, but he couldn’t find the energy to care. His breath was shuddering in and out slower, and the stars above him were spinning, dancing in beautiful sparks of light. The pound of Derek’s running faded out and Stiles closed his eyes again.

*

Light. Light was shining into his eyes and Stiles grunted and turned away. Pain bloomed through his body, sharp and deadly, and Stiles decided to be still again. His throat felt dry, his skin tight, and as he came to, he felt an odd weight on his left hand. Frowning and blinking, Stiles opened his eyes.

The annoying light was gone, but in its place was Melissa, her face tear-streaked and worn. She didn’t hug him, which he thought was strange, but she did reach down and run her hand over his cheek. “Hi, honey. How are you feeling?” she asked, and her voice was like a blanket, soft and warm.

“Thirsty,” Stiles replied and she smiled, shaking her head and offering him a plastic cup filled with lukewarm water.

After he had finished drinking, he set the cup down and realized he had gained feeling and control back in his right hand. He flexed it, looking at his fingers. His pinky finger was still bright red, but he figured it would go away with time. Looking back up at Melissa, he squinted.

“What happened?”

She smiled again, a sad little thing, and turned to stare at the wall. “We were just doing night reports, like always, and when it came up that you were missing, I got scared. You had never missed night call, even when you were planning to sneak out that night anyways. Everyone assured me you had just forgotten, but I knew you. I panicked. So, I made the command to search for you. People thought you were somewhere inside, but I know how you love the outdoors.” She smiled again, then frowned. “So I went outside looking for you. A couple others came to help me – Scott, Allison Argent, and Derek Hale.” She was furiously pressing her thumbnail into her palm, looking hard at the wall. “I was so scared, Stiles. And when Derek brought you back, I thought you were dead.”

Stiles breath caught in his throat. Derek had found him? His memory was fuzzy and blurry, slow and thick like it had been dipped in clear syrup.

“You were so _pale_ ,” she whispered, looking over at him. “Your lips were blue and you were paper white. Your fingers…” she bit her lip hard and Stiles saw tears in her eyes. “I never understood why you wore fingerless gloves.”

A sinking, lead feeling floated down around Stiles. Slowly, he looked down.

The feeling grew.

His hand was bandaged, a thick white thing that wrapped around his palm and over his pinky.

His pinky.

The bandage was too smooth to have concealed the bump of a bent finger, and too low to have accommodated his finger unbent. He stretched his fingers out. He watched his ring finger, middle finger, index finger and thumb stretch wide. Nothing else.

He felt no pull as he freely moved his ring finger. No strain from where his pinky should be. The breath in his lungs caught and he made a strangled noise. His pinky was missing.

Melissa was watching him with sad eyes. She reached over and pat his leg, smiling softly. “Even if they had left it, you wouldn’t be able to feel it or move it. It was better this way. It’ll be easier for you to do things, with it gone, rather than having to work around it.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

Melissa stood and walked around the room, pacing. “You should really be grateful you only lost your finger. You could have lost your hand, or your arm. Your life.” Melissa frowned again, biting her thumbnail.

Stiles nodded, and his eyes returned to his hand. He wondered how long he had been out, but then he cast the thought away. He didn’t really care. He turned back to Melissa and nodded again, then leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

 

Over the week, Stiles was to remain in the hospital wing of Brodwell as his hand healed, scarred over. They said he had been comatose on his own for about two days. Then, once they realized they would have to remove his finger, they put him under for about two more days.

They said the wound was healing fast, faster than expected, and he would have a thick layer of scar tissue in no time. Stiles tried to ignore it for the most part.

He couldn’t complain, really. He hadn’t lost an important finger, and it had been on his left hand. Mostly, throughout the duration of his hospital stay, he had sat in his bed and read comics, watched TV, and messed around on his laptop. It felt more like a vacation than anything. Except when he accidentally would glance at his left hand, see the smooth expanse of cloth over the place that used to be his pinky.

The more he thought about it, the more embarrassed he was. He couldn’t even claim he had lost it during something cool or interesting, like fighting off a bear.

No, Stiles Stilinski had lost his pinky from frostbite, because he had fallen asleep while reading in the woods.

He got visitors throughout his stay, mostly Melissa and Scott, but the occasional teacher would drop by, check on him, see how he was doing. It was on the day before he could freely roam, (carefully roam, the doctors said, so as not to irritate the amputated spot) that his rescuer came.

Stiles had just finished a Captain America comic when Derek walked in, tall and brooding, clad in a dark Henley that had to have been extra-large, because it hung slightly loose around his rippling frame. He had on dark jeans as well, and when he saw the Captain America comic sitting on Stiles lap, he rolled his eyes.

Stiles didn’t particularly want Derek to be near him at the moment.

“Hey,” Derek said, jerking his chin.

“Hello.” Stiles replied, using his right hand to place the comic on the table beside him. He didn’t really understand why he was put on bed rest, but that was another thing he was glad to be rid of.

Derek stared down at him, and the strangest expression flickered across his features. Stiles waited for him to say something, putting his head forward a bit as he waited. Nothing.

“Did you come to actually say something, or did you just want to gawk at my hand?” Stiles asked, raising his eyebrows.

Derek scowled at him, but then turned away. “I wanted to see how you were doing. I didn’t save you for shits and giggles.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “No, Derek, I’m sure you didn’t. I’m also sure you didn’t humiliate me in front of everyone for shits and giggles either. I’m _sure_ you know why I went out into those woods, right after. I’m also _sure_ you knew exactly what you were doing both times. Saving your reputation. First, you were making a joke of the fact that I actually _care_ about human beings, rather than, like the rest of you, practice ways to _murder_ them. Then, once you realized that, shit, maybe I had left to go be alone was because of _you_ , you went looking for me. You saved me, brought me back, and bumped your reputation a little higher.” Stiles hissed, his hands clenching. He ignored the bandages on his left.

“But that doesn’t really make sense to me, because you’re known as the school’s best killer, yet now you pride yourself in saving a life? I’m not sure how you keep your priorities straight, but damn, you’re good Hale.”

Silence filled the room, but Stiles refused to look at Derek. There was a soft rustle, and Stiles heard the door close.

He should have been proud. He should have been able to triumphantly smirk at the door for finally telling Derek off.

He felt guilt. Blooming like a poisonous flower, quiet and deadly. He hadn’t meant half of those words. Not really. There was no way to take them back, though, so Stiles sat grumpily for the next two hours, wondering when he was going to get a hold on his life.

He decided probably never.

*

Months passed. Winter break came and went, and Stiles spent most of that carefully learning how to work with his lack of pinky, which turned out, came naturally to him. In January, the doctors removed the bandage and said the scar tissue should be thick enough. It was. It was still sensitive, and on occasion where his pinky used to be would flare with pain, despite the lack of a finger to receive it. The doctors told him it was phantom limb pain. He went to scar massage and took therapy, and by February, he felt normal. Fine. Happy, even.

He had strangely grown to love his lack of finger, absently running his hand over the tingling scar now and again. Life returned to normal. He had exceeded the range of regular classes Brodwell was equipped to teach, so technically he graduated regular high school.

He still took charisma classes, which he still thought were fun.

Altogether, life for him hadn’t changed that much.

It didn’t stay that way.

*

Stiles was walking down the hallway, on his way to meet Scott outside his classroom, when he was stopped by Master Finstock.

“Hey, kid, follow me. We’ve got a surprise for you.” He smiled, his eyes squinting in a way that did not appear to be kindness, more like slight madness.

Stiles followed him nonetheless, through the winding corridors and up the curling stairways. They came to a stop outside a room with large wooden doors and Finstock gestured for Stiles to go inside.

Pulling them open with both hands, Stiles stepped inside the room and curiosity and confusion seeped through his brain.

Melissa sat at a large, oval table and smiled at him when he walked in. The rest of the masters were seated as well, and for some reason Derek Hale was sitting at the end of the oval table. Scowling at him Stiles crossed his arms. Derek’s eyes revealed nothing.

“Have a seat in that chair, Stiles,” Finstock commanded, and Stiles sat down in the chair at the opposite end of the table from Derek, so they were both sitting at the ends.

“I’m going ask,” Stiles began, and the masters around him sighed, “what is going on?”

Melissa looked like she wanted to talk, but kept her mouth closed as Master Deaton rose from his chair. “Stiles, nine years ago, we let you join our elite and exclusive school. We promised you would never have to take a life, and we will live up to that promise. However, your skillsets are needed for Derek Hale’s next mission. You will be traveling to New York City with him and glean information from the people on this list.” Master Deaton slid the piece of paper forward, and Stiles picked it up. He recognized none of the names.

“These are people who might know the whereabouts of our victim.”

Stiles stomach churned. “Who is it? I mean, what did they do, to deserve to die?”

All the masters bowed their heads. Master Deaton stared at him. “He was one of our own. Then he betrayed us, gave away sacred information for some money, and now this school is in danger of an attack. He will pay in his blood.”

Stiles looked across the table and saw Derek’s shoulders set, the hard line of his jaw clench.

“Who?”

“Peter Hale.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay just one thing - I'm not sure how persuasive my writing is, (I highly doubt it can do much damage) BUT!
> 
> I mention murder in here, and I describe it in Derek's perspective (which as we all know, IS VERY WARPED) but I'm here to discourage my lovely readers from murder.
> 
> IT IS BAD OKAY. DON'T KILL ANYONE PLEASE. 
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy.

Stiles was the first one to leave the conference room, after Master Deaton had released them. He had stood up and fled, pushing roughly through the doors and dashing down the hall.

A mission.

He was finally going on a mission, a mission which, if successful, would end a human life.

Derek’s _uncle_.

The horror of it all was not lost on Stiles. In fact, it was very far from lost. It was one hundred percent _found._

He just needed a way to tell Derek that.

Swallowing and disappearing down the hall and into the shadows, Stiles was grateful for a small moment that he had actually had Scott teach him the shadows trick. It came in handy while snooping. He remained hidden, and soon there were footsteps echoing closer and closer to his hiding spot.

“I just don’t know if he’s ready, Deaton.” Melissa.

There was a sigh, and they stopped a little out of Stiles’ line of sight.

“Melissa, I understand your concern. It’s completely natural for a mother to hover around a child like this, but it was bound to happen. He’s not killing first hand, and that’s exactly what he was promised. I can’t just educate him, feed him, and clothe him for nothing. I’m sorry, but I lack the soft heart Stiles has. All of us do.”

There was a brief, tense silence and then a loud slap on the back sounded. “Eh, Melissa, don’t take it so hard. The boy’s probably gonna end up killing on this mission anyways. I mean you can’t expect someone to grow up around people who not only think murder is okay, but _practice_ that, and expect him to be pure his whole life?”

There was a condescending laugh that could only have been Finstock’s, and Stiles’ blood boiled. He waited quietly until they left, and then he crept back out of the shadows, glaring in their direction and absently running his hand over his scar.

“You’re good at that,”

Derek emerged from another crowd of shadows to Stiles’ left, and he cursed the lack of lighting in this school.

“Where did you learn to shadow melt like that?” Derek asked, and Stiles stared at him, looking for any sign of sarcasm or cruelty, even awkwardness considering his last words to Derek were not the most pleasant. But, no. Derek just looked mildly interested as he crossed his arms over a tight camo colored shirt.

“Scott,” Stiles replied a bit defensively, slinking back against a locker.

Derek frowned as he watched him, then turned to look at his own hand and ran his hand over his pinky finger. “How’s the hand? Doing okay?” The genuine concern in his voice made Stiles flinch.

He held out his hand, because people loved abnormalities and other’s misfortunes, and Derek stared at it before taking it gently between his own rough palms. Stiles ignored the silent shiver that trailed up his spine at Derek’s touch and watched as Hale ran his fingers over the scar in wonder. Surprisingly, all Stiles’ felt was a soft flutter, like his nerve endings were whispering happily to themselves.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles blurted, the words spilling from his mouth before he could dam them in. Derek looked up in surprise, dropping Stiles’ hand.

“What are you sorry for?” Derek asked, and the real confusion in his eyes startled Stiles just like his concern. Derek was already surprising him, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like this curious, gentle side of Derek, the one who had all the makings to being compassionate. Stiles’ chalked it up to emotional vulnerability. He had, after all, just found out he would be single-handedly (not _really_ since Stiles was helping, but he didn’t like that thought) murdering his only surviving family member.

“You know, the words I said. The fact that you have to kill your uncle. All that.”

Derek’s eyes darkened and he glared down at Stiles. ( _There_ was the Derek Hale Stiles knew)

“Peter Hale means nothing to me. He betrayed not only me, but put everyone who lives here in danger. I don’t take that lightly.” Derek once again moved into his space, but this time he shoved him against the locker, a sudden anger emerging from somewhere unknown. “And I want you to know that I have _no_ qualms about killing. The moment we find him,” Derek pressed harder against Stiles, as if to indicate Stiles had no choice in finding Peter, “I will break his neck with my own two hands. It won’t be nearly what he deserves, something that fast and painless, but it’ll be the best way.”

Stiles was floored with the idea that Derek could kill him, right here, right now. All he would have to do was move is hands up, wrap them around Stiles’ throat, and wait. Or hold the curve of his jaw, then twist his hands and jerk his arms and that would be the end. It seemed ridiculous that it could be that simple. He felt something stirring in his stomach, and his eyes went wide.

No, _no_.

He could _not_ be turned on by that thought. It was ridiculous as it was unbelievable, but still, Finstock’s words echoed in his head. Maybe he _had_ been affected, just not in the ‘I want to kill that person with this gun’ way.

Maybe sexually, he had been affected.

Derek noticed the harsh blush creeping along Stiles’ skin, and he took a step back in confusion. Then, when he saw Stiles’ growing erection, so horribly hidden behind his skinny jeans, he smirked.

He was the Devil.

Then suddenly he was crowded again, but Derek’s hot breath was in his ear and his hand was palming teasingly at Stiles’ erection. Once, twice. Then he removed his hands and trailed it up Stiles’ arm. He was leaking already, and he could hear Derek’s words brush silky soft across his skin. “You like that? The thought that I could end you right here, right now, with only my hands? Maybe you want that power directed somewhere else…” He smiled and Stiles’ lips fell open, his eyes trailing desperately after Derek.

Then he was gone, out of Stiles’ space, and disappearing into the dark hallway once more.

Stiles took a deep breath, then slid down the locker. He wasn’t going to make it out of the mission alive.

 

A couple hours later, Stiles was lying flat on his back, throwing a ball high into the air and catching it swiftly with his other hand. It was a strange thing to watch his left hand wrap around the ball, but he decided to be fascinated instead of disgusted. Scott was lying on the other bed across from him, furiously playing on his DS again, barely listening to Stiles’ ranting.

“I mean, how am I going to make it out of this Scott? I can’t let him kill his own uncle. I don’t care what he says about it, that just can’t settle right in your brain, whichever way you spin it. I just don’t know _how_ I’m going to convince him.” Stiles threw the ball harder, and it bounced angrily off the ceiling, hitting Scott on the head.

He blinked, then sat up. “You could always kill Peter for Derek. Then the mission would be done, Derek would have what little sanity he is still clinging to, and everyone goes home happy.”

Stiles grunted. “Killing someone isn’t always the answer, Scott.”

Scott, for once, put down his DS. “I know it isn’t Stiles, but in this case it is. Peter Hale is going to die sometime, someway. My guess, from the life he’s leading, it won’t be of old age. If Derek kills him the way he says, Peter should be grateful, begging even.” Scott took in the skeptical look on Stiles face and sighed, sitting up.

“It’s not just about the killing, Stiles. The people who die at our hands are going to die soon, sometime, and it’s not going to be pretty. If we see just reason in killing them, we take pity on them. Why prolong a life when in the end they will die painfully anyways? Why not cut it one day shorter and save everyone the trouble?”

Stiles was horrified by Scott’s thinking, wondering how he even made it out of his comatose state alive. With that kind of thinking, after the first day he didn’t wake up, they should have just killed him, because who knew when he was coming back?

Stiles stared hard at the ground. “Okay, Scott. But what if that one day you took from them was the day that changed everything around? What if it was the day that was supposed to be the first stepping stone in the right direction? You can’t just take that from someone, Scott. I don’t care who you are. It’s not right.”

Scott stared, and the horror Stiles felt everyday was for once reflected back at him. “But they review them. Someone had to send a request in for us to even know the situation. Had we declined, they would have just hired someone else to kill them.”

Stiles shook his head. He was sick of arguing this. “Who knows for sure, Scott? The requester may have had a change of heart but was too late in contacting us. The assassin could just _not_ kill the person, tell them to high tail it out of there, and say job well done. I mean, Jesus, Scott! I didn’t know you could ever blindly follow rules.”

Scott was staring at the floor, looking at his hands. Stiles wasn’t in the mood to watch him mourn the mistakes Stiles had warned him of. He turned over on his bed, pulling the covers tightly around his shoulders, and flicked the lamp off. He didn’t hear Scott move for a long time.

*

The next day, Melissa woke Stiles up at five in the morning, and he seriously thought he was going to vomit. He was not supposed to be up at this hour. She had packed his bag, thrown several thick envelopes of one hundred dollar bills into his carry-on, shoved a blanket and two pillows into his arms, then hugged him hard and waved goodbye as he hauled his abundance of luggage onto the white passenger van that would transport himself and Derek to the airport.

The mist that crowded around them made Stiles’ even more sleep deprived, and he let his head fall back against the seat with a loud thud. Derek was sitting beside him, blinking blearily and rubbing his hand over his hair, which he hadn’t had time to gel. Stiles turned his resting head sideways and studied his hair. It was a soft brown, like nearly melting chocolate and Stiles stuck his hand out to run his fingers through the thick mess. It was so soft, Stiles just wanted to leave his hand there.

Derek was suddenly looking much more awake, and he pushed Stiles hand to the side, scratching at the side of his face. Stiles sighed and turned away, watching the blur of Brodwell fade behind him. In about seven hours he would be at New York City, crawling with people just waiting to be investigated.

They arrived at the airport sooner than expected, so they had to haul their luggage up to check the time for sure before hauling it back to the pulley, Stiles mourning the loss of his items before trudging along after Derek towards the security check. They wouldn’t be able to get past security with knives and guns on their person, so Stiles had always figured there was a friendly face at their destination who was willing to supply them with murder weapons. Instead, as they went through the magical x-ray scan, Stiles saw, to his complete horror, nestled along with books, headphones, and a traveling movie box, were guns and knives and something that looked an awful lot like a ninja star.

However, before the security guards could apprehend him, Derek pulled back his jacket and revealed a badge with Brodwell academy’s logo emblazoned across it in shining gold. The guard grunted and let him pass, immediately patting Stiles down. Derek didn’t look too pleased about that one, but Stiles’ assumed it was for wasting more time.

When they had both made it successfully through, Stiles pushed at Derek’s arm. “What the fuck was that back there? Do you have some sort of alliance with the fucking airport?”

Derek looked down at him. “I’m assuming so. I never asked the history behind it. All I know is that I show them this badge, I get to take a shit load of weapons with me on my carry-on.”

Stiles grumbled and rolled his eyes, giving his ticket to the pleasant looking lady with a frown. She smiled at him, but it looked a little forced, so Stiles assumed he wasn’t looking the best at the moment. He trailed behind Derek until they were in their seats, where he dug out one of his pillows and his blanket, immediately finding the best possible position to be in. He had gotten the window seat, which was fine by him, so he could angle his head against the glass and close his eyes. Derek stirred beside him, obviously annoyed with how fast he had situated himself, and leaned out the aisle to wave at the hostess. Stiles, watching from under his eyelids, spied as she came over. She had gleaming blonde hair and red lipstick and a shiny nametag that read _Avery_. Derek flashed his badge, and she nodded quickly. Soon, she returned with something small and metallic. She leaned over to hand it to him, her cleavage extremely prominent. Sighing and deciding he had had enough of this secret assassin business, Stiles closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke next, the sky around them was a pleasant light blue, and they were soaring above the thick, fluffy clouds dangling over the world. It was a strange sensation, to know that you were above the clouds, that no one in the world but the people in the plane with you knew where you were.

And, of course, the flight operatives back at the airport, but that just made the magical feeling a little less magical, so Stiles didn’t think of it.

Derek was awake beside him, his graceful neck slumped forward, his huge yet delicate hands turning the worn, yellowed pages of _Where the Red Fern Grows_.

Stiles stared at his hands, long and tan and strong. He thought of the life that had evaporated from this earth because of those hands. The blood shed on cold tile floors. The eternity of tears and endless torment of loss. He wanted to take them, to scrub off all the sadness, all the loneliness and shame. He wanted to bleach the blood from his skin, to pull the violence from his bones and show him that there was a whole beautiful world waiting for him to discover.

Instead Stiles flicked the cover of the book and said, “Figures you’d like something so sad,”

Derek stopped, his whole being freezing, for one moment. Then he carefully placed the book down on his thigh and turned to look at Stiles.

“You can look at it as loss if you prefer, but I look at it as a valuable lesson. The love in this world is sometimes so strong that not even death can contain it. Not even death can separate it.”

Stiles stared at him, biting his lip softly. “Is that how you justify killing humans? That if someone loves them enough, then no one will be sad?”

Derek shook his head and met Stiles’ eyes. The calm, easy manner of his body was not reflected in his eyes. His eyes were deep and contemplative, like he was thinking of everything at once and mourning it all. It was beautiful and sad at the same time. “I don’t justify it.”

Stiles was shocked. The words entered his head and swept through his body, stirring his organs around a bit and then leaving.

“ _What?_ ”

“I don’t justify it when I kill someone. I just kill them.”

“What do you mean, you just kill them? If there’s no justification, you admit its plain murder, then why do you still do it?”

Derek’s fingers idly stroked the soft pages of his book. “It’s what I was raised to do. I’m good at it. I don’t get emotionally attached. Why _don’t_ you kill?”

Stiles threw his hands up. “ _Because it’s a horrible thing to do!_ ”

Derek just shook his head. “The world is a giant, simmering mess of people, Stiles. And in that giant, simmering mess, is a variation. There are people like you, who would choose peace over war, and there are people like me, who would choose war over peace. I think you’ll find yourself happier if you accept the fact that not everyone is like you, Stiles. And not everyone wants to be like you. Certainly not me.”

Stiles stared, his brown eyes wide, thick lashes brushing the just under his brow. “I just don’t understand why,” he said finally, softly.

Derek turned on him so fast his book fell from his lap and landed hard on the floor. “I don’t need you to understand,” he whispered, his hand clamping down over Stiles’ knee. “I don’t need you to understand that I love the feeling of power it gives me,” he squeezed his leg a little harder. “To know that I could end anyone in here, at any moment. You’ve never touched power like this, Stiles.”

Derek leaned closer, his eyes dark and mesmerizing, surprisingly gentle. “You will never understand the rush it gives me.” His hand trailed slowly up Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles’ felt his breath catch. “The addictive pleasure of strength burning through my veins. You’ll never understand,” he whispered again, his hand coming to cup the side of Stiles’ face.

“And I don’t ever want you to.”

*

When they arrived at New York City, Stiles’ nerves were fried, due to the nine cups of coffee he had consumed along the ride, and the lack of environment to release the energy he had acquired. Derek was as calm as ever, tossing their luggage into the back of the taxi cab and slamming the trunk.

Stiles stood awkwardly to the side, not ready to get into the cab because that would be rude, but not really helping at all. Their conversation kept ringing around in his head, and for multiple moments during that plane ride, Stiles had been very tempted to understand that kind of power Derek had been talking about.

The way he had explained it, completely free of reasons and justifications, the pure simple statement ‘I kill and I enjoy it’ did something to Stiles. It was the first time he had considered that the people he lived with _enjoyed_ what they did.

The explanation of power had made Stiles’ fingers twitch, his skin crawl with the need to _move_ and his brain nearly explode from his head. Curiosity had always been his weak spot, no matter what, and Derek had planted a dangerous seed in his head. He had turned killing innocent people into an act of power, and no matter how many ways Stiles’ kept spinning it, he couldn’t turn fully away.

Murdering innocent human beings was a horrible thing to do.

Murdering the innocent was a crime punishable by life in prison and/or death.

Murdering the innocent was what he had been fighting against his whole life.

He repeated those thoughts in his head as he slipped into the car with Derek, slamming the door closed just to see if the loud noise would jar him.

It did, and Derek, too.

He glanced over at Stiles with an annoyed look, and it appeared their bonding on the plane was long forgotten. Derek Hale, star of Brodwell and infamously broody and slightly psycho was back.

“You have anger issues or something?” Derek asked with an infuriating smirk, pulling his door closed calmly. Derek was such a mess of different personalities, Stiles had a hard time keeping track of them.

“No, just trying to wake myself up,” Stiles responded airily, waving his left hand in the air. He ignored the way Derek’s eyes latched onto his missing digit and instead turned to the taxi cab driver, who also happened to be staring.

He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth, giving off a soft train of smoke, and he kept it locked between his jaw when he asked, “Where’d you lose your finger? Or why?”

Stiles’ was jarred for a second, that being the first time anyone had asked, since everyone at Brodwell academy knew, and everyone else had been polite enough not to ask. Though, Stiles’ found he didn’t mind.

He held it up for the driver to see, studying it at he talked. “It’s actually pretty lame,” he smiled softly, shaking his head. “I fell asleep in the woods late December with fingerless gloves. When I woke up my finger was gone.”

The driver shook his head with a small smile. “Tough fucking luck, kid. At least it was a pinky.”

Stiles smiled. “Yeah,”

Throughout the rest of the ride, Derek watched him. When they arrived at their hotel, tall and marble, gleaming polished poles and golden doors hanging with thick red silk, Derek stopped him.

“Were you okay with that, back there? His asking you?”

Stiles nodded, frowning a bit. Why wouldn’t he be okay?

Derek stared at him for a minute more before pushing through the doors, about ten tons of luggage draped over his back. Stiles was holding his small carry-on bag and a suitcase that you could roll. It was obvious Derek didn’t like to make two-way trips.

Stiles followed him into the wide expanse of the lobby, the floor designed in a carpeted, elegant pattern of royal blue, crimson, and a soft gold that flowed gracefully beneath their feet. The walls were also made of lined marble, white and gleaming. Grecian pillars held the lobby roof aloft, which donned a beautiful mural of chubby cherubic children flying through thick white clouds on an endless aquamarine sky.

Stiles was wearing a holey t-shirt and sweatpants.

Blushing furiously, he walked up to the shiny reception desk and accepted the credit card Derek pushed at him under his mountain of luggage. He smiled at the clerk, a friendly-looking male with blonde hair and a single dimple on his right cheek.

“Hello, sir. Do you have a room reserved?”

Stiles shifted awkwardly, unsure of what name to use. Derek groaned ‘Brodwell’ under his breath before dropping two bags. The rest followed swiftly, with Derek close behind.

The clerk, alarmed, glanced over. Derek was making the ‘I’m going to murder anyone who looks at me funny face’ and quickly all the on-lookers glanced away. Blondie turned his attention back to Stiles, and smiled once more.

“Yes, I have a reservation under Brodwell.”

The clerk smiled and clicked some buttons on the computer. He raised his eyebrows the slightest inch, but Stiles noticed. He reached under the desk and pulled out the key-card envelope, sliding it across.

“You reserved the pent house suite, correct? To be charged weekly, however long the stay is?” He squinted and clicked another thing. “Accommodated by free meals and transportation. Is that correct, Mr. Brodwell?”

Stiles did his best ‘I’m not about to piss myself I’m so excited face’ and nodded. “That sounds about right,” he replied coolly, accepting the room key envelope.

The clerk smiled, then gave him his room number and told him to call if he needed anything, anything at _all_. He followed that up with a discreet hand sliding Stiles’ his cell number.

Stiles was quite pleased.

A bellhop arrived quickly to help Derek with the luggage, piling all of it onto the gleaming gold cart. Stiles pocketed the number and began whistling as he walked next to Derek.

His mood seemed to have _decreased_ since entering the hotel, though Stiles’ didn’t see why. They were literally about ready to have the vacation of their _life_ , minus the murdering thing.

But Stiles’ ignored that, as he was so very good at ignoring everything. Derek glanced over at him and glowered some more. “I’m sure you’re going to run off with that clerk at the wee hours of the night?”

Stiles glanced over, never ceasing to be amazed at Derek’s complete skill at noticing _everything_.

His hand slipped into his pocket and he idly played with the piece of paper.

“What’s it to you if I do? I won’t be hurting anyone by relieving some stress.” Stiles answered flippantly, and Derek’s eyes grew darker.

“Do what you will,” he ground out, and Stiles’ swore he could hear his teeth grinding.

Once they reached their room, the bellhop bowed quickly before scurrying away, probably terrified by Derek. Stiles sighed. With Derek walking around like a literal thunder cloud, he wouldn’t be able to get much investigating done.

They settled themselves in the room, or _rooms_. There was a small lobby, with two rich chairs on either side of the door. A hallway lead them three directions: a gleaming, metallic kitchen that looked futuristic, a dining/living room that had white walls, glass tables and black, sleek furniture that smelled fresh and crisp, and finally, the bedroom.

It was equipped with two massive beds, each with comforters the color of cream, that felt like velvet against Stiles’ hands, thick black carpeting and wide bay windows that looked out over the screaming, bustling city. Soft, silky curtains were pulled to the side of the windows, and Stiles saw a patio waiting for them on the other side. There were mirrors on almost every surface of the white and navy walls, and the trim was a brushed gold.

Stiles was almost positive this was a dream.

Derek just threw the suitcases down on the floor, slumping into one of the chairs in the living room. Stiles set his bags gently down, walking throughout the suite like a child in a toy store. The bathrooms were gleaming and glossy as well, with jet-stream tubs as big as a hot tub.

Derek wasn’t nearly as impressed, and Stiles was reminded that this wasn’t his first mission. Which reminded _him_ : he was on a mission.

He slowly trailed back to the living room, where Derek was still slumped forward, combing his hands through his hair. He looked so _tired_ , so soft and _human_ that Stiles wanted to go and place a hand on his hard shoulder, to comfort the powerful being sitting slumped and miserable before him.

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching down to touch his arm very carefully.

Derek looked up and his eyes were stormy. His inconsistent moods were driving Stiles’ up the fucking wall, but he couldn’t really blame the guy. He was going to murder the last of his living family.

“Wanna work on our first investigatee?” Stiles asked, smiling widely and wagging his eyebrows like he had said something obscene.

Derek stared at him for a moment before a reluctant grin pulled his at his features. He sighed once more, and he seemed to push the weariness right from his shoulders. He stood and followed Stiles’ into the kitchen.

They had a mission.

*

Said mission never actually went into mission mode, as once they got to the gleaming kitchen table Stiles pulled out the first profile, studied it for a moment, then dropped it and looked up at Derek. He was smiling softly, his eyebrows raised.

“You gonna work those mad charisma skills you’ve been trained for?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and glanced back down at the paper. “Yeah, okay, _smartass_. Let me get a bath first, then we can…” he gestured to the papers filled with information. “Get started. Or, something. We’ll get something done. At least, I mean. Like who knows, right? We could get _nothing_ done and then that wouldn’t be good, but then we could also get _a lot_ done-“

“Stiles,” Derek murmured, crossing his arms while simultaneously trying to hide his smile.

“Mm, yeah?” He glanced up, only just then becoming aware of his babbling.

“Go take your bath,” Derek smirked, jerking his head towards the bathroom.

“Right, sure, of course,” Stiles smiled hastily and retreated for the bathroom, shutting the door quickly behind him and pressing against it.

This whole ‘helping with murder’ thing had come a _lot_ faster than he had been anticipating. Like, a ton.

He controlled his breathing and clenched his fist, staring at a small spot on the corner of the wall, trying his hardest not to hyperventilate.

He quickly moved over to the huge tub, turning the faucet. The loud sound of water washing through the room eased his nerves, and he sighed, slowly slipping out of his clothes.

He had found that unbuttoning things was actually much harder than he imagined it would be, minus his pinky finger. For the first month or so, he had refused to even use button ups, but he liked the way they looked too much to stay away for long.

His hands stumbled slightly over the buttons on his old, very comfy flannel he had thrown over his old shirt, in a half-hearted attempt to make himself look less raggedy.

He finally stripped it off, however, throwing it to the ground in agitation. The rest of his clothes flew off his body swiftly, and by that time the tub was close to overflowing.

He slowly sank into the water, limb by limb, feeling his muscles turn to liquid, melt into the frame of the tub. His body broke out in pleased goose bumps as he was enveloped in the warmth of the silky water.

He took a moment to ponder whether or not he should jerk off, considering he usually had a nightly routine of doing it in the shower back at Brodwell. He was always too nervous he would wake Scott if he did it in their shared room.

He had the same fear with Derek.

Only, it wouldn’t just be _jerking off_.

Back at Brodwell, he had usually either imagined Lydia shirtless, or Jackson (as much as he hated to admit it, but there was something infuriatingly sexy about an asshole who looked like that) naked. It was quick, satisfying, and easy.

He knew that if he pulled a quickie right here, it would be to Derek. He could feel the pull of him in the other room, like they were tied together on an invisible string. He didn’t like it, but even in here, he was aware of Derek’s presence.

As much as he’d like to touch himself to Derek’s sweet voice echoing through his mind, the warm water made his limbs lazy and heavy, and he was content to just sit there in the tub. His eyes closed slowly, and somewhere in the back of his mind he was screaming that this was _so_ not a good idea, but he was always falling asleep in the wrong places at the wrong time anyways.

He woke sometime later, the water cooled down to a mild room temperature. He felt foggy and out of place, his fingers and palms reduced to raisins.

Shaking his head slightly, Stiles blew air out of his mouth and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He figured he had been under for a while, but he wasn’t sure how long.

Diving under the water with a splash, he closed his eyes and let his limbs float freely around him, trying to circulate blood back into them. He must have been down there for about twenty seconds when he heard his door smash open, the loud smack of wood hitting the wall.

He barely had any time to react before warm hands were gripping his shoulders and yanking him out of the water.

He came up spluttering, water flying everywhere, blinking droplets out of his eyes.

Derek was breathing hard, his eyes wide and very close to his face. He seemed to not notice the lack of clothing on Stiles, but Stiles _so did_.

He _so very much did_ notice the lack of clothing.

When Derek had assessed him with his eyes, coming to terms with whatever had possessed him to barge in on Stiles, he set him firmly, like _very firmly_ , nearly borderline _throwing_ , on the ground with a growl.

“I thought you had been fucking killed,” Derek hissed angrily, his fists clenching and unclenching almost helplessly at his sides. “I heard the splash… I thought you might have fallen or something, but then when I didn’t hear anything else,” Derek let another breath go, watching the wall angrily.

Stiles was hunched awkwardly over himself, trying to hide his slightly hard cock from view. God _damn_ him and his kinks.

“I’m… sorry?” Stiles wondered, edging for a towel. He snatched one up and drew it quickly around himself, and Derek’s mind seemed to click at that moment.

His face, Stiles was pretty sure, coated itself in a light shade of red. “I’m sorry I barged in on you but…” he looked down, the panicked expression returning. “You can’t… can’t be so… flippant about everything. We’re on a mission, Stiles. For all we know, we could be hunted down right now. Peter Hale is not a force to contend with, and that’s exactly what we’re doing.”

Stiles glared at the ground. “Then why in the world did they send _us_?”

Derek smirked, his cocky ‘I am _Boss_ ’ attitude swelling and making an appearance.

“I’m the best in the school, the most qualified to hunt him down and get the job done. I would have gone solo, if we had known exactly where to find him. We don’t, though, so-“

“Yeah, that’s where I come in, I get it.” Stiles paused, biting his lip. It still didn’t sit right in his chest; the force they were going up against. Derek may have been the best, yes, but he was a _senior_ , eighteen, nineteen at most. If his uncle was as dangerous and powerful as he claimed, then why had Brodwell sent a senior in high school assassin and a skinny sophomore to get the job done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahha NO MURDER


End file.
